


8. Nothing Good on Telly

by floosilver8



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 50 Reasons: Sherlolly, F/M, Floor Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Shameless Smut, Sherlolly - Freeform, Smut, Television Watching, fifty reasons for sherlolly sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 07:08:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1419208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floosilver8/pseuds/floosilver8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’s not sure why it happened, but somehow Molly and Sherlock started watching <em>Game of Thrones</em> together.</p><p>Part of the 50 Reasons to have Sherlolly Sex meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	8. Nothing Good on Telly

**Author's Note:**

> This wasn't supposed to be this wordy. This is probably mostly AU because I didn't bother to reference much of the canon. Put it wherever you like in the timeline.

She’s not sure why it happened, but somehow Molly and Sherlock started watching _Game of Thrones_ together on Monday nights.

The first time was an accident. She’d come over to deliver some ears and he was sitting in his chair, intently staring at the telly. Actually, it was more staring _through_ the telly – he was obviously in his Mind Palace. When he hadn’t moved or spoken for a few minutes she hung around to watch to the end. She usually watched the show herself, and had been planning on catching it on Sky Atlantic online later. It was difficult for her to remain calm during the more steamy scenes, but Sherlock showed no outer agitation so she didn’t stir or comment either.

The second time, he had been hanging around her flat all day. It was his usual visit where he sleeps for a few hours, eats all the biscuits, plays with Toby, and reorganises the contents of her kitchen cabinets. When 9pm rolled around, she didn’t worry about disturbing him, so she sat on the sofa and turned on the programme like she always did. She didn’t really think anything of it when he abruptly finished his reorganisation and sat down beside her – stealing a few handfuls of her crisps of course.

After that, there always seemed to be a reason, or accident, that got them together on Monday nights. Mostly, Sherlock just showed up at her flat. They had been getting on rather well lately. True, their conversations hadn’t been lengthy, or of any substance, but she felt more comfortable around him than she ever had before. The show was occasionally so intense they sometimes didn’t notice if one was clutching the other one’s knee – ok, that was usually Molly doing the clutching. Casual touching had gradually become the norm. The night always finished with a gentle kiss on the cheek before departing. 

Last week had been the final episode of the series so Molly sat on her sofa, reading and relaxing like any other work night. The sound of his key in the lock was mostly unexpected, but not unwelcome.

“Hi, Sherlock,” she calls as he closes the door behind him, hangs up his coat, and slips off his shoes. She glances up to acknowledge his presence and registers that he is wearing her favourite of his shirts – deep purple – with his usual dark slim-fit slacks. _Gorgeous as always. The prick._

Not being much for talking Sherlock just sits himself on the other end of the couch and tucks his toes underneath her thigh. He’s done it before. It’s not a big deal.

“Would you like some tea?” she offers, putting down her book. He just nods silently.

In the kitchen, she hears him switch the telly on and thinks nothing of it. Once the tea is made, she gives Sherlock his mug and resumes her place on the sofa, picking her book up as well. He again tucks his toes under her thigh and flips through the channels seemingly mindlessly. A few minutes later, she notices him look at his watch and grumble.

“Something wrong?” she asks, not looking up.

“Where is it?”

“Where’s what?”

“Our programme.”

 _Ours?_ She finally looks over at him. His face is almost childlike displaying slight worry. She can’t help but smile affectionately as she realises, “Oh, I’m sorry, Sherlock, last week was the final episode.” She pats his left shin a few times. “I thought you knew.”

“Ever?”

“No, just until the next series.”

“Oh,” he stares at the remote control in his hand for a second. “How long will that take?”

“Several months, I’d guess. Probably a year.” He huffs but doesn’t speak again, so she finds her place in her book and resumes reading.

Sherlock flips through the channels a little longer, and Molly doesn’t notice his occasional side-long glances. She does notice when he turns off the television, but it takes her a few minutes to register that he’s looking at her. Well, staring would be more accurate.

 _Okay..._ She gives him a quick smile, inviting him to speak if he wants to, and returns to her book. Instead of speaking, Sherlock removes his right foot – the one closest to the edge of the sofa – from under her and places it on the floor, very near her own. His big toe just grazes the outer edge of her foot and she stills. Casual touching may have become the custom but that didn’t mean it had no effect on her.

She clears her throat lightly to shake the tension in her mind and turns the page of her book. The foot moves almost imperceptibly slowly, grazing the top of her toes. She bites the inside of her cheek to remain calm. Seemingly content with the actions, the foot begins slowly caressing first her toes, but soon the whole of her foot. This was certainly a new action between them.

She eyes Sherlock sideways again and notes that he’s still staring at her. She can’t help but observe that with one foot on the floor and one on the cushion, his legs are splayed wide, opening his hips to her. She looks away quickly and bites her bottom lip, almost sharp enough to draw blood. _What the hell is he doing?_

Suddenly, Sherlock sits up and scoots closer to her, placing a gentle hand on her knee. His other hand brushes away an imaginary strand of hair from her face. She closes her eyes at his touch, not entirely sure what to do. His body shifts against her side and she can feel his warm breath against her ear. Her “fight or flight” senses are incredibly dulled.

“Sherlock,” she manages to whisper, “what’s- Ah!” His teeth catch her earlobe, gently nibbling and sucking. _What the fuck is this?_ She wants to panic and freak out but it feels so good she also doesn’t want him to stop. A desperate moan leaves her lips as his mouth wanders a trail of firm kisses down the side of her neck. She has a white knuckle grip on her book now but she nuzzles her face into the side of his head. The action is meant to push him slightly away, but also bring his face up to hers. “What are you doing?” she breathes against his lips.

“What does it look like?” he gazes into her eyes then lunges forward, crashing his lips onto hers.

She happily absorbs the assault and responds with eagerness. Her heart feels like it’s going to burst through her chest cavity at any moment, and heat radiates over her whole body. They break apart, trying to catch ragged breaths. He glances down and removes the book from her firm grip.

“Sherlock,” she has to say his name, has to ground herself somehow and prove that this is real. He kisses her again, a little less bruising pressure, but with no less passion. His lips perfectly fit against hers again and again, lightly sucking first her bottom lip and then her top, and then starting all over again with his head tilted at a different angle.

How long has she wanted to do this? How many nights did she lay awake thinking of him, yearning for him? It was bad the years he was “dead” and gone, and worse when he was back and just having a kip at her flat. She thought Tom could soothe the ache. She had been wrong.

The only cure for her burning passion for Sherlock Holmes was happening right now.

His hands cup her face, nearly holding her entire head. His cupids-bow lips are everything she ever imagined they would be. Soft, smooth, plump. It makes her breath catch in her throat. He grazes his tongue against her bottom lip for only a second, but it’s enough and she wants more. She opens her mouth ever so slightly, invitingly, and he seizes the opportunity to apply long, light strokes against her own tongue. A moan rumbles up from his throat, and gets pressed into her mouth. The unbridled desire contained within it echoes in her cloudy brain.

 _This. Is. Everything._ Her hands clutch his legs and she can’t remember moving them to touch him, but she wants to touch him everywhere. She wishes her hands were bigger to explore more of his body at once. She applies firm pressure as she drags one hand up his side, eventually resting it behind his neck, keeping him close.

Her conscience compels her to speak, because even with a brain full of adrenaline she can’t just let this continue unremarked upon. “We shouldn’t be doing this,” she croaks out between fervent kisses.

“Why not?” His voice is even lower than it usually is, sending waves of pleasure through her. He draws a hand down to her hip, to pull her in closer, and pulls his mouth away to suckle a trail down the side of her neck and across her clavicle. 

She actually grunts and has to take a breath to remember what she was talking about. “You don’t do this. ...You don’t like this.”

He gently removes her hand from his neck and places it on the top of his leg where thigh meets pelvis. She lets out a small gasp at the contact. His hardening cock is unmistakable, beginning to strain against his trousers. “Does it feel as though I don’t like this?” he whispers against her lips again.

 _Oh my fucking God!!_ She spreads her fingers as wide as they will go, pressing her hand harder into his body. She registers the softness of his trouser fabric, because if this stops right now she wants to remember every detail. He resumes attacking her mouth, pulling her almost into his lap.

“Why are you doing this? You don’t like me!” she gasps between kisses. Her hand begins exploring a wider area of his hip and upper leg.

A low guttural moan escapes his throat. He shifts his attentions to the side of her neck, “How can you think that? After all we’ve been through?”

She tilts her head back to allow him better access. “But...you don’t...Not like this. You don’t do this...” She says again, lazily waving a hand back-and-forth between them, indicating their impending coupling.

He nods for a second against the base of her throat, “No, I don’t do this. But I want to.” He suckles her tender skin, no doubt leaving a mark that will be visible for days.

“But _why_?” a large part of her thinks it doesn’t really matter right now, but she asks the question anyway. _Just stop talking and enjoy it!_

He trails kisses up and down her neck and over her shoulder, gripping and caressing her upper arms. “Because we like each other. Because we’ve never done this before. Because there’s nothing good on telly. Because it’s-”

“Ok!” she cuts him off exasperatedly, “Just shut up, and kiss me!” She’s tired of self control, she’s tired of propriety.  She grabs his dark curls with both hands and brings his face back up to meet hers. Their kisses are desperate and hungry. The force of their repeated meeting is bruising. Sherlock pulls her close while he slowly leans back to recline on the sofa cushions. She follows his lead and soon all her weight is pressed against him, including between his legs. She has no choice but to feel his hardness pushing into her hips.

His fingers grapple with her clothes, pushing up the hem of her blouse and tracing the bottom edge of her bra. She arches into his touch with a moan, and slips an arm between them to begin unbuttoning his shirt. His fingers grip her tightly, and he tilts his hips back to press into her. The added friction makes her brain melt and all the spare blood to rush to her groin. They both gasp at the same time.

“Sherlock,” she tries to speak.

“Molly,” he grumbles between kisses.

“This is a terrible angle for taking clothes off.”

His arms envelop her and he slowly shifts to roll her off the couch and on to the floor. They manage it without getting injured. He kneels around her legs and unbuttons her blouse quite quickly, exposing her chest. Propping himself up on one arm, he explores her clavicle and sternum with his mouth while his other hand massages her ribs and side. She arches her back into his movements, inviting him to continue. But his roaming hand carries on exploring her side, travelling down to rub her hipbone briefly.

She groans and manages to whisper, “Sherlock...just touch me.”

He gasps audibly and grips her flesh almost painfully. But he does obey, nuzzling his nose into her bosom and stroking the band of her bra. She winds her fingers into his hair, keeping him close. His fingertips graze the top edge of the cup as his palm massages her breast. He shifts and caresses her nipple through the fabric, and it hardens under his touch. He lets out what can only be described as a growl and nips at her flesh, pushing away the bra cup to access her breast further. He licks a trail from her sternum to the apex before running his tongue along her nipple and taking it fully in his mouth, nipping gently. She squeals softly with delight. He shifts his weight and begins to explore her neglected breast with his other hand, fondling the bottom edge of the band and cup.

“Just- just take it off,” she pants, digging her fingers into his scalp. He nips her again before pulling away and bringing her to sit up. He doesn’t stop kissing her as he almost tears her blouse off, and fondles with the clasp of her bra for a second before popping it loose. He begins to direct her to lie back again but she pushes on his chest and they break apart, breathing heavily. He watches her hands work quickly to release the remaining buttons of his shirt, and helps her swiftly remove it from his shoulders. They resume kissing and he cradles her head in his hands.

Her hands busily work to open his trousers, first releasing the button clasp and then pulling down the zip. She’s not shy about it, and purposely lets her hands touch his raging erection through the fabric as she works. He pushes her back to the floor finally and begins working on her own trouser fly. Once undone, he grips the waistband and leans back as he pulls both trousers and knickers off of her in one swift motion. He resumes his place between her legs, and they both relish in the feel of their warm skin touching and gliding against each others’.

She lets both of her hands caress his back, trailing broad strokes from his neck to his waistband and back again. Soon, she pushes at his trousers, not managing to do much, but getting the message across.

Sherlock’s hand that had been keeping her still now trails along her bare thigh and hip. Shifting to create some space between them, he grazes the sensitive skin of her stomach and trails down over her dark curls before switching angles and cupping her sex. She moans against his mouth and slowly spreads her legs as she pushes herself into his hand. He rubs her slowly, still kissing her lips, only parting her folds after several firm strokes. His long fingers explore her for a while, tracing every curve.

“Oh, God. You’re so ready for me,” he croaks against her mouth. She responds by pushing into his strokes and capturing his lips again. He doesn’t stop his attentions, but he slows, almost lazily grazing her clit with his index finger before curling it slightly and slipping it into her entrance. She throws her head back as the loud gasp escapes her. Sherlock pulls away to watch her face as he continues his strokes. He uses the heel of his palm to work her clit as he draws his finger slowly in and out of her.

She gasps, covering her eyes with one hand and clawing at his arse cheek with the other. Twitching, she stands on the edge of total bliss. Her pleasure is reeled back a bit when he shifts and slides down her body, kissing her skin as he moves. He comes to rest with his face between her legs, kissing and pawing at her thighs. “Fuck!” is the only coherent thought as his tongue licks a long, wet stripe along her soaking folds and flicks over her clit. His tongue begins to explore the same path as his fingers had previously, lapping up every bit of her arousal.

She claws at the carpet in an attempt to keep herself collected. Eventually, he concentrates his attention on her clit, flicking short, firm strokes over it quickly and she can’t think of anything at all. “Sherlock...I...don’t stop,” she writhes and arches against him.

He obeys, keeping the same speed and gripping her hips to keep her from moving away too much as she tremors and comes against his mouth. Only a soft gasp escapes her lips as she trips over the edge. Before her quakes have even stopped she tugs at his head and shoulders, bringing him back up to her, and does her best to push away his trousers and pants. His erection hasn’t flagged at all and she gives it one firm stroke in appreciation, grazing the head with her palm.

“God, Molly!” it’s Sherlock’s turn for his brain to turn into mush. She grips his hips and grinds her sex along the length of his shaft. It renews the tremors she had felt only a moment ago.

She wants him to plunge into her but the logical bit of her brain speaks up for a moment, “Sherlock. Condom. Bedroom. ” He kisses her deeply and nods, guiding her legs to wrap around him. She locks her ankles together behind his back and he easily picks her up off the floor and carries her into her bedroom. He lays her gently across the bed and she points to her bedside table.

He follows her direction and quickly finds what they need. She takes the opportunity to push his trousers off fully and as he steps out of them she grasps his cock in her hand again. He stills and gasps as she licks the length, swirling her tongue round the tip and applying firm strokes to his shaft. “Fuck!” is all he manages to say before pushing her shoulders back and further onto the bed. He rolls the condom on easily with one hand, while sliding down over her body, bringing their faces level.

Settling between her legs, he positions his member at her eager entrance. He kisses her first before pulling back to look into her eyes as he slowly penetrates her. She squeezes her eyes shut and bites her bottom lip, gasping as she takes in his size. She grabs his neck and draws him down to attack his mouth as he slides slowly back and forth inside her hot centre.

His movements are unhurried at first but rapidly speed up with the encouragement of her hands and soft moaning. She clutches at the backs of his thighs and tilts her pelvis up into each of his strokes to take him in to the hilt. Nothing in the world has ever felt this good. He keeps a steadying hand on her hip, and the other finds her hand to intertwine their fingers. As he grinds, he slowly moves their clasped hands above their heads to better grip the bed and put all his force into her.

“Oh, fuck,” she gasps against his cheek. Her second orgasm hits her on an upstroke and her muscles quake around him, milking his cock. He continues to pump and it only takes a few seconds for Sherlock to let loose as well. He freezes above her as he reaches his release, grunting into her neck while it over takes him. When it’s finished he goes limp and buries his face against her body.

They stay clutching each other for a moment, catching their breath and enjoying the endorphin rush. She lazily strokes his hair and places a kiss against the top of his head. He squeezes her hand and pulls out of her slowly, suckling on her neck at the same time.

After a few seconds, with her blood pumping more regularly, her brain starts to play catch up. Parts of her want to panic, but a larger part is just still too happy. It seems relief has washed over her along with her orgasms. They’ve certainly entered into brand new territory between them.

“Sherlock, what the fuck was that?” she asks eventually.

“I have no idea,” his breath is still ragged. “...Do you want to do it again?” he grins at her, his eyes sparkling.

She smiles genuinely back at him and can’t help but let out a small laugh. This could be bad. It could be the worst thing she’s ever done, but she really doesn’t care that much. Sherlock Holmes is lying naked on top of her, and all is right in the world.


End file.
